Jeeves and the Boxing Chump
by Pjazz
Summary: A country house, an old pal, a blonde heiress, vicious German dogs and a boxing contest all conspire to land Bertie Wooster in the soup.


**Jeeves and the Boxing Chump**

**A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster fanfic**

by Pjazz

2007

The phone call from my Aunt Agatha came out of the blue. She was curt and to the point.

"Bertie, I want you to go to Hesketh Hall immediately."

"Hesketh hall?"

"That's correct. I've made all the necessary arrangements. They are expecting your arrival."

"You want me to go to Hesketh Hall?"

"That's what I said. Are you deaf? Or being deliberately obtuse?"

"No, it's just I---"

But it was too late; the aged relative had already hung up.

I lost no time in appraising Jeeves of this unforeseen development.

"Odd, Jeeves, this hankering the aged r. has for me to visit Hesketh Hall."

"Indeed, sir."

"Why Hesketh Hall, I wonder?"

"I cannot conjecture, sir."

"Where the dickens is Hesketh Hall?"

"It is situated in Kent, sir. Near the coast, not far from the golf links at Sandwich. A most pleasant locale at this time of year."

"Well, I suppose we'd better buzz off there_ anon_. Is anon the _mot juste_?"

"Yes, sir. _Anon_ is quite appropriate."

"_Anon _it is then."

- - -

**Hesketh **Hall turned out to be one of those redbrick stately homes built around the time King Alfred left the oven on and burnt his cakes - or was it pastries? I'm not terribly_ au fait_ with historical cookery. As Jeeves inferred it was slap bang on the south coast with picturesque views of the English Channel. Thankfully it wasn't one of those stately homes that require a funfair or a pride of lions roaming the grounds to pay the bills. Nor did it allow the_ hoi polloi_ to poke about the place during daylight hours in lieu of paying a small fee at the door. There is nothing worse than being in a bath tub of a morn only to find a _polloi _at the window gawking at your loofah action. Quite puts you off your ablutions.

While Jeeves stowed the luggage in my allotted quarters I went in search of a restorative cocktail or three; it had been a long drive from London and the Wooster throat was as dry as sandpaper.

I had no sooner got myself outside a chilled g. and t. when I felt a tap on my shoulder. There before me large as life and twice as ugly was my old pal, Murgatroyd 'Mungo' Mostyn.

"Mungo! What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Hullo, Bertie. My aunt rang me up and ordered me down here. Most insistant about it she was too."

"That's a rum coincidence. So did my aunt. Perhaps it's something in the water."

"I'm jolly glad she did. I've found her, Bertie. The One."

"The One, what?"

"The One and Only. Love, Bertie. The whole bally enchilada. Her name's Lady Kristin Hesketh, Lord Hesketh's youngest daughter."

"Looker, is she?"

"Looker doesn't even begin to do her beauty justice. If Helen of Troy's face could launch a thousand ships then Kristin's could launch two thousand ships, three even."

"How d'you think she managed that? Helen of Troy, I mean. D'you think they sort of lifted her up and slapped her face against the ship's hull, like a bottle of champers? Seems awfully tough on Helen. Probably needed a good deal of make-up to cover the bruises after the first hundred. Not to mention headache pills."

Before Mungo could voice an opinion on this historical conundrum, a tall blonde woman in her early 30's hove to. The fragrant Lady Kristin, if I was not mistaken.

"Mostyn, what are you doing? You promised me you'd help clean my Purdey. Shotguns don't just clean themselves, you know."

"Sorry, Kristin. I was just greeting a friend. Kristin, Bertie Wooster. Bertie, Lady Kristin Hesketh."

"Wotcha!"

"Charmed, m'sure."

Lady Kristin was one of those women the tabloids like to describe as an 'ice blonde' or a 'frigid femme fatale'. Indeed to my eye she seemed positively glacial. It was as if some sculptor had carved her from a freezing block of Artic pack ice. Curves in the right places and all that, but she didn't smile overly much and her blue eyes and general demeanour radiated all the warmth of a Norwegian fridgefreezer.

"Do you ride, Wooster?" she asked me.

"Not so much, no."

"Fish?"

"Not really."

"Hunt?"

"Fraid not."

"Good lord. What an echoing void your life must be. Mostyn - remember our date at six tommorrow morning. The fish are early risers so we must be too."

"Oh rather," agreed Mungo. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Engraved on my heart you might say."

But Lady Kristin had already turned and was walking away. The room suddenly got about ten degrees warmer.

"Six in the morning? Trifle early for a date, isn't it?."

"Kristin's taking me fishing. She's a very active girl. Enjoys her huntin', shootin' and fishin'. Not too fond of it myself but I've got to show willing, especially after the riding debacle."

"What riding debacle?"

"It turns out I'm allergic to horses. We rode up on the downs yesterday and I sneezed the entire way. Kristin wasn't too impressed. She already sees me as a namby-pamby city-type, too fragile for the rough and tumble of rural life. I have to convince her otherwise or she'll hand in her notice on the sweetheart front."

I couldn't help but feel Mungo had his work cut out on that score. Mungo is a tall, skinny sensitive chap with thinning brown hair and a pronounced overbite. . A bit on the cerebral side. Likes to collect stamps and wile away the long evenings filing them in their correct categories. A dashing D'Artagnan figure he isn't.

- - -

**The **next morning I rose as is my wont at around ten. I strolled downstairs to try and collar a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever was most convenient to hand. To my surprise I found Mungo shivering in front of the fire, soaking wet and wrapped in a blanket.

"Mungo? Whatever happened, old chap? Is it raining?"

"My waders sprang a leak while I was out fishing with Kristin," he explained forlornly. "Then I slipped on some wet rocks and the stream carried me practically the whole way to the sea. If I hadn't managed to grab a low hanging branch I'd be halfway to Nova Scotia by now."

"How did Kristin take this?"

"Not too well. She accused me of larking around and scaring the fish away with my foolish antics."

Hardly the type of thing one wanted to hear from a prospective mate. A bit lacking in the love and symp. department, I thought.

"I trust you told her where to get off?"

"Are you mad, Bertie? I'll never win her love and respect like that. No, my only chance to prove my mettle is when she takes me hunting this afternoon. If I can bag a rabbit or two then I'm sure she'll soften somewhat."

"Bag a rabbit? You mean shoot the blighters?"

"Yes. I'm improving all the time with a shotgun. Now I can almost keep my eyes open when it goes off."

I wished him the Best of British and sloped off to eat lunch.

- - -

**I** took an afternoon nap and around four decided to have a stroll round the grounds. Nothing too strenuous. A little exercise to help work up an appetite for dinner.

No sooner had I stepped outside than an ambulance drew up disgorging Lady Kristin and poor Mungo, unconcious on a stretcher. He was carried inside and I hastened over to discover what had transpired.

"I say, what's happened to Mungo?"

"Mungo? Oh you mean Mostyn."

"Did he shoot himself? Did you shoot him?"

"Hah! No, the big baby fainted at the first sight of blood. We were in open country. Downwind. I spotted a good size rabbit, took aim and felled it with a single shot. Good shooting if I do say so myself. I decided to gut the thing right then and there."

"Gut the rabbbit?"

"Yes. They're best fresh."

"Did it involve - um - much bloodshed?"

"A good deal of blood. Plus viscera. And a fair quantity of steaming entrails."

Blood, viscera and steaming entrails. Just thinking about it made me feel faint. I pitied poor Mungo having a front row seat for all its widescreen technicolour glory. No wonder he conked out. Anyone of sensibility would.

"Now if you'll excuse me - Wooster, is it? - I have a rabbit to disembowel for tea."

"Oh quite."

Lady Kristin pushed off and I continued outside for some lungfuls of blessed fresh air. I felt I needed it.

- - -

**The **next day Mungo felt well enough to accompany me on a walk into the village of Moxley, a mile or two from Hesketh Hall.

"How are you and Lady Kristin getting on?" I enquired, setting a brisk pace.

"Not too well. She hasn't spoken to me since yesterday. This morning she took her German Alsation dogs, Rommel and Guderian, out for their exercise without me."

"Rommel and Guderian? Odd names for dogs."

"They're old german generals from the last war. Kristin has a keen appreciation of military history. I sometimes think she misses those days, when men were men and tanks rolled o'er hill and dale slaughtering all and sundry."

Charming.But I kept my council.

"I'm just not cut out for this huntin', shootin' and fishin' lark, Bertie. It's just not me."

"Well give it a miss then."

"But it's all Kristin cares about. She's not interested in stamps. Which is a pity because I've got some rare first day covers from Patagonia that would knock her eye out. But no, she thinks stamp collecting is for sissies."

"Not manly enough, eh? No blood spillage involved."

Mungo winced.

"Don't remind me, Bertie. When I think of that poor little bunny rabbit...One minute hopping about in the meadow, nary a care in the world, the next a bullet in its brainbox and a sharp knife skinning its fur without so much as a how d'you do..."

"Oh quite. Live and let live, and all that."

"I'm a spiritual person, Bertie. I study Buddhism. Do you know Buddha?"

"Never met him. Pal of yours?"

"It's a religion, you jackass. A central tenet of the Buddhist faith is the belief that our souls are eternal, reincarnated over and over in the bodies of other living creatures. That poor rabbit might've contained the soul of Julius Caesar, Marc Antony or Queen Victoria - Shakespeare even."

Seemed a bit far fetched if you asked me but I humoured the fellow.

"I met a parrot once who could recite the solloquoy from Hamlet word for word," I told him. "Perhaps that was Shakespeare paying a return visit?"

"Very possibly. Is the parrot still alive?"

"No. It got the mange and fell headfirst into its seed tray, stone dead."

"Ah. 'Out out brief candle'."

"What are you going to do about Lady K?"

"I need to perform some heroic act that will impress her and make her see me in a different light."

"The old knight in shining armour gag?"

"Precisely. Here's an idea - you could fall into the stream, pretend to be drowning and I leap in and rescue you."

"Not ruddy likely."

"You won't drown to help an old pal?"

"Nope."

"This selfishness ill becomes you, Bertie," Mungo admonished, grinding his teeth in frustration. Then:

"I've got it! You verbally abuse Kristin, call her all sorts of beastly names, and I come along and say 'Stop, Wooster, you forget yourself' and give you a stern ticking off."

"Are you mad? She'll probably shoot me on the spot. Or set her foul dogs on me."

Mungo's shoulders slumped.

"You're right, Bertie. Once she wore some particularly tight jodhpurs and a local youth wolf-whistled. Kristin wanted to horse whip him for his impertinence. "

Mungo sighed.

"Much as I worship her, I admit Kristin's is a rather dominant personality. Attila the Hun on one of his fierce days might've tamed her. Or Genghis Khan at his most bellicose. But I'm not Attila the Hun."

"Or Genghis Khan," I pointed out.

"Just plain old Murgatroyd Mostyn, philatilist."

"Philatilist?"

"Stamp collector."

"Ah right."

We reached the village of Moxley and I must say I wasn't too impressed with the place. It was just a few thatched cottages round a central square with a war memorial in the middle. It was not what you would call a hive of activity. The local pub, the Wheatsheaf, was closed. Ditto the Post Office cum general store. All that was open was a blacksmith's forge and the Church Hall. We walked over and gave the notice board the once over.

"Look, Bertie!" Mungo exclaimed, suddenly becoming agitated. "There it is. My chance to impress Kristin."

I peered closer. Amomg the forthcoming attractions was:

Friday 3.00 PM

Homemade Cake Baking Competioin

All entires welcome

1st Prize: An electric blanket

"I don't think she'll be too impressed if you bake a homemade cake," I said dubiously. "Or by winning an electric blanket."

"No, no, you goof. Underneath that."

I looked again.

Saturday 6.00 PM

Amateur Boxing Contest

Allcomers Welcome

Big Cash Prizes

"Boxing? You know nothing about boxing."

"What's to know?" replied Mungo breezily. "You biff some blighter before he biffs you. I confess, in London I might hesitate; there are some big brutes there I wouldn't accost without an armed guard. But this is Moxley, a tiny hamlet in Kent. My opponent will most likely be some spavined old codger looking to supplement his meagre pension, or a mewling youth not long out of short trews. Don't forget, Bertie, I am a man of intellect; I got a First at Oxford."

"Not for boxing you didn't. And as I recall you gave the rowing squad a miss in case you got splinters from the oars. Hardly the fighting spirit."

But there was no dissuading Mungo; he went inside the Hall and put his name down for the contest with cavalier insoucience, like a turkey convinced Christmas had been given the old heave ho for once and all was well in this the best of all worlds.

I could but await developments with bated breath - and a good deal of foreboding.

- - -

**I'll** say this much for Mungo - he didn't stint on his preparation. In the days leading up to Saturday he was a veritable whirlwind of physical activity. Each morning he ran several laps of the grounds, usually pursued by those hellhounds Rommel and Guderian, who snapped hungrily at his heels, no doubt eager to extract revenge for two world wars. Mungo had also purchased a pair of boxing gloves and each afternoon practiced in his room using a large leather armchair as a sparring partner. If his opponent turned out to be a stationary item of furniture there was a good chance he might actually win.

On the morning of the fight Mungo joined me in my suite of rooms. Jeeves and I had agreed to act as cornermen. Our duties were to include providing water and fresh towels, plus the encouraging word in the ear between rounds. And no doubt to arrange an undertaker in the event things went totally pear-shaped.

Mungo however was the epitome of confidence. He shadow-boxed around the room with nary a care in the world.

"What a beautiful day, Bertie!"

I agreed it was very clement.

"Today Kid Mungo becomes a hero."

"Kid Mungo?"

"Yes. It was Jeeves' suggestion. Murgatroyd Mostyn is a trifle dry for a boxing marquee. Kid Mungo is more authorative, more box office, more gladitorial."

"Oh quite. Any idea who your opponent is?"

"Not a clue. But I don't care. Whoever it is will be up a tree in three, on the floor in four, barely alive in five, er..."

"Thoroughly licked in six, sir?" Jeeves suggested.

"Excellent, Jeeves. Licked in six, gone to heaven in seven, and so on and so forth. I do love boxing lingo. A Most invigorating parlance."

"I have ascertained the identity of your opponent, sir," said Jeeves. "Should you wish to know."

"Absolutely, Jeeves. Who is it? Some local invalid perchance?"

"A Mr. Bonecrusher Harris, sir. The village blacksmith."

"B...B...Bonecrusher Harris?"

"Yes, sir."

"O..O..One of those spindly six stone weakling blacksmith's you often hear about?"

"Oh no, sir. Bonecrusher Harris is renowned locally for his great feats of strength. It is said he once lifted a drayhorse entirely off the ground with his bare hands."

Mungo gulped several times like a fish suddenly deprived of its H2O.

"How d'you know all this, Jeeves?" I asked.

"There is an unofficial betting pool in the staff quarters, sir. There is considerable interest there about the coming contest."

"A betting pool, you say?"

My own interest perked up at once; we Woosters appreciate a good wager.

"Yes, sir. Bonecrusher Harris is the odds-on favourite, but there are better value bets to be had. It is 4-1 Mr Mostyn loses three or more teeth. 5-1 he cracks a rib. Even money he is knocked cold in the first round."

Mungo groaned and slumped in an armchair. He buried his face in his hands and wailed pitiously:

"Oh my god, what have I done? I'm going to get myself killed."

"It's not too late to withdraw," I advised. "You could say you've sprained an ankle. Or Rommel and Guderian took a chunk out of your tender parts. Lord knows they've tried."

"And look a cowardly worm in front of the woman I love? Kristin's already agreed to come and watch me fight."

"Better a cowardly worm than a dead one."

But it was no use. Mungo was adamant. I just hoped he had written his Will and put his affairs in order before the coming massacre.

- - -

**Now** everyone enjoys a good old fashioned punch up. The villagers of Moxley certainly did. They had turned out _enmasse_. The church hall was a heaving cauldron of stout yeoman, gurning peasants and assorted fishwives, all chattering excitedly and waiting impatiently for their bloodlust to be slaked.

The bouts on the undercard - a few bantamweights from the local Youth Clubs - soon subsided and it was time for the Main Event - Kid Mungo v Bonecrusher Harris.

Mungo climbed into the ring clad in his Drones Club smoking jacket, followed by Jeeves and self. We attracted some good natured jeers from the many-headed, but this was as nothing compared to the hoots of derision ocassioned when Mungo removed his jacket. Mungo was not what you would call well built; I've seen more muscle on a whippet. And he was as pale as tapioca pudding. The overall impression was of a milk straw wearing red satin shorts and boxing gloves.

"Where is she, Bertie? I can't see her anywhere."

"See who, old chap?"

"Kristin, of course. She's the only reason I'm putting myself through this ghastlly business."

"Oh right. Lady Kristin. Probably at the back somewhere," I suggested. "The front rows are positively heaving with proletariat."

Just then a huge cheer went up as Bonecrusher Harris climbed into the ring.

Now if there was ever a chap destined to be a village blacksmith it was this Bonecrusher Harris chappie. He had thick dark hair over a low beetling brow. His muscles writhed and flexed beneath his skin like angry snakes in a canvas sack. He had a tattoo of an anvil on his right bicep and radiated an air of palpable violence.

"Oh my giddy aunt! Look at the size of him," exclaimed Mungo with alarm.

"You'll be fine," I lied. "Just remember - chin up and guard down."

"I believe the other way round is likely to be more efficacious, sir," Corrected Jeeves.

"As you wish. Which ever suits you best, Mungo."

The referee stood in the centre of the ring and bellowed:

"Ladeeez and gennnnelmen! The main event of the evening! In the red corner, representing Belgravia, London - Kid Mungo!"

There were boos amid some polite applause. Mungo smiled feebly.

"And in the blue corner, representing Moxley, Kent - Bonecrusher Harris!"

The resultant cheers shook the Church Hall to its very foundations. It was like a gas explosion.

"Seconds out! Round One!"

The bell went and the fight was on.

Now I'm not what you might call a boxing_ afficianad_o. I mean, I know the gist of the thing - jab and move and try not to have your head launched into orbit - but the subtlities of the art mostly elude me. Even so, I'm pretty certain Mungo's tactics weren't what you could call orthodox ring etiquette. He was attempting to hide behind the referee so that his opponent could not throw a punch without risking hitting the official and being disqualified. I don't know if you've ever heard the tune 'Me and My Shadow/walking down the avenue'? But that was pretty much Mungo's plan in a nutshell. Wherever the ref went Mungo went, like two peas in a pod. Thus the round ended with neither man throwing a punch.

Boos rang out as Mungo sat on his stool.

"How am I doing?"

"It's hard to say. Aren't you supposed to hit him?"

"And make the brute angry? Are you insane?"

The bell sounded again and Mungo reluctantly reentered the fray. Only this time the ref was wise to his antics and stood with his back pressed tight to the ropes. Try as he might Mungo could not inveigle his way between.

And then Bonecrusher was on him, like a lion on a helpless wildebeast, his fists pistoning blows to Mungo's ribcage. Mungo crumpled like a house of cards and the ref took up the funeral dirge.

"1-2-3-4-5-6-7---"

Mungo staggered to his feet and began to back peddle furiously around the ring, managing to keep his opponent at bay by sheer momentum and the adrenalin of utter terror. When the bell sounded he slumped on his stool and panted breathlessly:

"Gosh, it feels like I've been kicked by a mule. Are you sure he hasn't got iron horseshoes hidden in his gloves?"

"It is most unlikely, sir," said Jeeves.

The bell sounded afresh and back out into killing fields went Mungo.

Now if there was a flaw in this ultimate fighting machine called Bonecrusher Harris it was mobility. Nature might have provided all the brawn necessary to shoe horses and bend mighty iron bars in a forge, but all that muscle was slow to manouver. Mungo began to exploit this by jogging carefully around the ring always one step ahead of the ponderous Moxley behemouth. Indeed, it became less a prize fight than a sort of synchronised chase, a Keystone Kops epic without music or pratfalls.

This went on for the next three rounds and Bonecrusher became redder and redder in the face from a combination of the unexpected exercise and sheer frustration at not being able to land a punch.

"How many more rounds?" Mungo wheezed between rounds. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I'm getting a stitch in my side. And my lungs are fit to burst"

"I don't know for sure. Jeeves, how many more rounds to go?"

But Jeeves was not at my side. In fact, he was over in Bonecrusher Harris's corner, leaning over the ropes to whisper something in the great beast's ear. Whatever it was seemed to find approval because Bonecrusher nodded vigorously and grinned round the edges of his gumshield with malevolent glee.

Once more Mungo got on his bike, figuratively speaking of course. He circled the ring at a fair pace. Only now instead of pursuing him and trying to land a knockout punch Bonecrusher stretched out his right leg and quite cynically kicked Mungo, not once but several times in the shins, backside or whichever part of his anatomy he could reach. Mungo immediately complained to the referee, who merely shrugged and waved his complaints away. I suppose these village pugilist contests don't strictly adhere to the Maquess of Queensbury rules. And at least this improvised legwork injected some contact into what is after all a contact sport.

The bell sounded and an angry Mungo sat on his stool.

"Did you see that? That bounder is deliberately kicking me. It's an absolute outrage."

"Kicking's not allowed?"

"Of course it's not allowed! It's against all the rules. And that oaf of a referee lets him get away with it. If this continues there will be severe consequences, mark my words."

Back out went Mungo - straight into a sharp kick in the shins from his opponent who seemed to have forgotten what his fists were for. Only this time Mungo didn't attempt to run or remonstrate with the ref. Instead he stood his ground, poked out three stiffarm jabs -Boom-Boom-Boom- into Bonecrusher's face which jerked his head back on his shoulders like the tug of a marionette's strings. Then came an inch perfect right cross that folded his opponent in half. And the _coup de grace _- a textbook right uppercut that finally put all the lights out in the Bonecrusher household.

Slowly, like a majestic oak felled in a forest, Bonecrusher swayed and keeled over, sprawling lengthwise on the canvas. Someone yelled - 'Timber!' - and I realised it was me.

The ref took up the count.

"1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10! You're out!" he informed a comatose Bonecrusher. "The winner - Kid Mungo!"

At first there was a kind of stunned silence. No one could quite believe what they had just witnessed. It was the biggest sporting upset since biblical times, when David sley Goliath and put an unlikely away win on the coupon.

Then the crowd erupted in a great crescendo of noise. I suppose not one of them had been pro-Mungo from the off, but they were all intent on making up for this fallacy and their cheers echoed round the hall. In a daze, Mungo accepted the adulation, waving and blowing kisses to his audience while the local pallbearers carried a snoring Bonecrusher out of the ring.

Somehow Jeeves and I got Mungo through the crowd and into the Bentley for the drive back to Hesketh Hall. He could barely contain his elation.

"Did you see me? Did you see me? Biff! Biff! Boom! And over he went. I tell you, no one messes with Kid Mungo."

"Most impressive, sir," said Jeeves.

"All that early running was just a ploy," Mungo lied with impunity. "A clever ruse designed to impart a false sense of security in the big ape. Then I pounced. Like a puma. Or possibly a leopard. An ocelot even. Biff! Biff! Boom! Down he went. No one messes with Kid Mungo!"

The Bentley negociated the Hesketh Hall driveway and there caught in the headlight beams was Lady Kristin, with one of her sentinel dogs at her side. I suppose she must have left the Hall ahead of us.

"There's Kristin! Stop the car. I must speak with her."

Mungo exited and Jeeves and I continued up to the Hall and our rooms.

"Jeeves," I said, finally able to voice a question that was troubling me "what was it you whispered to Bonecrusher between rounds?"

"I merely suggested to Mr Harris, sir, that if he wished Mr Murgatroyd to stand and fight he should possibly try kicking him."

"You made him do that, Jeeves? But I thought you were on our side?"

"Oh my loyalty to Mr Mugatroyd's cause is unwavering sir. It has to do with the psychology of the individual."

"I'm not following you."

"As you saw, sir. Mr Murgatroyd is an essentially mild mannered young gentleman not easily roused to violence. He is one of nature's rule followers. However, if those same rules he adheres to so assiduously are broken, and the transgression not punished, he is suseptible to the Inner Beast."

"Inner beast? Indigestion, you mean?"

"Anger, sir. When provoked Mr Mugatroyd is a formidible foe. I merely conjured an opportunity to allow the Inner Beast to flourish."

"Biff! Biff! Boom! As it were, eh, Jeeves?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Well it worked to a tee. I wonder what odds you could've got for a Kid Mungo victory by KO?"

"50-1, sir. I placed a wager of £500 on the outcome. I hope this wasn't an undue liberty?"

"Not at all, Jeeves. You deserve it. All your winnings of...er..."

"£25,000, sir"

"Golly."

Just then the door burst open and in strode Mungo, the man of the moment. He seemed a trifle piqued, vexed even.

"Hullo, Bertie. Just came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? You're leaving?"

"Yes. I'm catching the next train up to London. I won't stay another second longer in this ghastly place."

"But what about Lady Kristin?"

"Hah!"

"Sorry?"

"I said - Hah! D'you know, she wasn't even at the church hall to watch me fight?"

"Not there? But you invited her surely?"

"Indeed. But apparently one of her beastly hounds was looking peaky so she preferred to stay and soothe its fevered brow and no doubt whisper consoling words in its ear rather than watch me duel to the death with that monster in human form."

"Gosh. So she never saw your famous victory?"

"Nope. Love is dead, Bertie. It has crawled into a vacant grave and pulled the sod up over itself.

I'm off home to the old metropolis and my stamp collection which I have grieviously neglected these past weeks. Goodbye. Cheerio, Jeeves. Thanks for everything."

"My pleasure, sir. have a safe journey."

And with that Mungo was gone. Presently I heard a door slam downstairs. A dog began barking then ceased abruptly with a loud yelp of pain. I rather thought Rommel - or possibly Guderian - had made the mistake of antagonising an Englishman in a bate and caught a large boot firmly amidships for its trouble. The Germans will never learn, dogs or people: never provoke John Bull in high dudgeon if you know what's good for you.

- - -

**A few** hours later I was preparing to don the jolly old PJ's and retire to Bedfordshire when Jeeves entered the bedroom.

"Lady Kristin to see you, sir," he announced.

"Lady Kristin?"

"Yes, sir."

"To see me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lady Kristin to see me?" I reiterated just to be on the safe side.

"Yes, sir."

And it was true. Lady Kristin stood without in all her Brunnhildean glory, looking every bit as glacial as before. She wore an expression of purest perma-frost.

"Ah there you are, Wooster. Just to remind you to be up at six sharp tomorrow morning. We are going fishing."

"We are?"

"Yes. And bring a stout jacket. The forecast is for rain."

And with that she buzzed off and I closed the door with considerable puzzlement.

"Jeeves, Lady Kristin just invited - nay, ordered me - to accompany her fishing tomorrow. At 6 am, no less."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Why would she do that, d'you think? Mistaken identity? Or has the shock of Mungo's leaving suddenly addled her brain?"

"I rather suspect, sir, that Mr Mugatroyd's departure has made you the next in line."

"Next in line for what, Jeeves?"

"As a candidate for Lady Kristin's hand in marriage, sir."

"What!"

"Yes, sir. I have ascertained that Lord Hesketh, Lady Kristin's father, has decided it is time her ladyship took a husband. To this end eligible bachelors of suitable breeding are being invited to the Hall so that Lady Kristin can make her selection."

"Great Scott! So that's why Aunt Agatha ordered me here - to pass a bally audition!"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

It was not a prospect that pleased. No, not a p. that p. in the slightest. Granted, Lady K. was curvaciously attractive, but then so is an ice sculpture by Rodin. But I wouldn't want to marry one. I mean to say, married life would consist of fishing expeditions at dawn in all weathers, petting two marauding dogs named after Nazi Generals, and a spouse with a predilection for shooting supper with a 12 gauge and gutting it _en flagrante,_ so to speak, seconds before it reached the table. Less a marriage and more a Wagnerian nightmare.

There was only one thing for it. To place my fate in the hands of an higher authority.

"Jeeves," I implored, "help me."

"You do not wish to marry her Ladyship, sir?"

"Not in this or a thousand other lifetimes."

"Very well, sir. The bed linen here at Hesketh Hall is of superb quality. The finest Egyptian cotton, no less."

"Jeeves, this is no time to babble about cotton!"

"If you'll permit me to continue, sir. The bed sheets could be knotted together and lowered out the window enabling you to climb down and effect an escape in the Bentley."

It was as if the sun had come out from behind the darkest storm clouds. Jeeves' schemes often have that effect on me.

"D'you think the sheets will reach all the way to the ground?"

"Easily, sir. They are king-sized sheets."

"Then get knotting, Jeeves. Knot as you have never knotted before."

"Very good, sir.

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

This is my ninth contemporary Jeeves & Wooster fan fic. The others can be found here at my fanfiction page. They can be read in any order - tho I flatter myself they improve with age(!)

Thanks for reading this far.

Cheers

PJ


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